A lot of great things emerged from the space program.
For example: Tang.
OK, Tang didn’t emerge from the space program. But I know astronauts drank it. (And my hatred of it was enough to keep me from becoming an astronaut.) But there were other memorable inventions thanks to NASA. Like memory foam. Or foil blankets marathon runners wear after a race. What about freeze-dried food and artificial limbs? And how can we forget stretchy yoga pants? You know, pants made from the Apollo capsule’s parachute material. And thank goodness for it. Because there is a lady in front of me right now that is wearing a pair and she just bent over — And any other material would have exploded from the stress.
And really, I’m not sure when yoga pants and leggings became acceptable substitutes for pants. I really feel like I know this lady way to well.
Talk about a full moon.
Now before you go judgmental on me, my butt’s not exactly perfect either. I have a scar on it from Afghanistan. I also have carpal tunnel syndrome from playing way too much X-box. Oh, and for the record, I won’t play shooter games. I did enough of that in places no one in this country seems to know much about.
But I’m retired from all that.
I am now a professional watcher. I limp quietly into the room, watch and no one notices me. I blend into the background. I watch and then I strike. I am hired by stores to observe their employees. Restaurants lean on me to make sure their servers are doing their job. I catch liars, cheats and thieves. Banks love me. Business men pay me well. I have, as Liam Neeson would say, have a particular set of skills.
No, I’m not a private eye. I don’t drive a Ferrari, live on Robin Master’s estate or have a buddy with a helicopter. I just see things. Things that you’d miss Things that used to keep my teammates alive.
People just pay me to be observant. And I’m damn good at it.
I used to do it for the military. I was trained to know what is going on around me.
Today I’m walking around the mother of all big box stores looking for shoplifters. It’s not hunting Taliban or Al Qaeda, but it’s a living.
I’m an observer. I see things. I’m always watching.
“Can I help you with that, ma’am?”
I approached the yoga-pants lady. She struggled as she tried to pick up the can of Spam.
She smiled. “I’m fine.”
I could tell a lot about her by just looking at her. First of all, she wasn’t fine. She was embarrassed. And she was single (no ring) and judging by the hair on her yoga pants’ leg, I could tell she had at least three cats -gray, black and orange. Her name was Julie (I saw that engraved on her purse) and she dyed her hair (the box in her cart was the same as the color of her hair.) She was a lot of things, but she wasn’t a shoplifter. I nodded and watched as she walked away.
War had been hell. Transitioning back to civilian life had been worse.
I had been a hunter in Afghanistan and Iraq. I was part of a team of brothers. A leader. A warrior. I kicked in doors and kicked butt. Now I was a pain in one.
Like my wife’s butt. And I’m not even going to mention the pain my own. And my VA doc. I apparently am a pain in her rear, too.
I am just a man. A man scrambling to figure out my future. Transitioning into private life had been difficult. I had my dream job. Now I’m dreaming another dream. I once could jump out of a plane at 30,000 feet. Swim miles underwater. Now navigating airports are a challenge. When I flew back home, I got lots of looks from my fellow passengers. I tried to explain nicely. I even showed one lady my scar. But their stares hurt — mentally and physically.
They didn’t understand. How could they? They had been obsessed about Justin Bebo or whatever the heck his name was. I was trying to keep my men alive.
A strange sense came over me.
“There, over in sporting goods,” I thought, “watch that kid.” He was nervous. Almost shifty. The kid is is going to steal something — I just knew it. And he did. He crammed a handful of merchandise and scurried toward the exit. I pulled out my radio and called security. “He’s coming your way.”
The little thief glared at me with a “how did you know,” look. I just do. I am a warrior.
So let me say this: The next time you see someone who looks like me — you know, a good looking guy with a slight limp — tell them thank you. Or better yet, give them a good job. I know for a fact they’d appreciate it. Just like I appreciate this one. Except when Julie bent over, or course. (Thank you NASA for stretchy parachute material. It’s proof we all need a parachute.)
Now if you will excuse me, I have a new career to create — a new life to live.
Just one small step for man. One giant leap for a veteran returning back to earth.
